Page 30 of The Ruin I Chose

I remember her voice lighting up, recognising places, eyes sparkling as she pointed out landmarks she’d only read about or seen in films.

I watched her—not the frescoes, not the grandeur. Her. Her hand in mine. Her awe. Her licking that gelato like she knew exactly what it did to me. Like she wanted me to snap. And I almost did.

I wanted to drag her into the alley and fuck her against the wall. But I didn’t. Because if I started, I wouldn’t have stopped. Not in that alley. Not in the daylight. Not even if Rome burned around us. And I wanted her to think I was better than that, even when I wasn’t. Even when all I wanted was to pin her down and fuck the defiance out of her. To make her moan my name with her mouth pressed to brick.

I thought about how I held her the night before—how my hands had gripped her throat, how every inch of her had been mine to claim, how she’d trembled under my touch and still begged for more.

Possession had never felt so urgent, so undeniable, so impossible to reconcile with the man I pretended to be now.

Later, I asked her to accompany me to the auction. I wanted to spend as much time with her as I could. I didn’t know why, but I just wanted her close. She brought out a calm in me—maybe even more than Elaine ever had.

Elaine had been elegance. Roxanne was gravity. And I was already falling, but I feared it. I knew this would end soon. She was here for a vacation. And yes—I wanted to leave as much of an impact on her as she’d left on me.

I couldn’t hold her back, though I wanted to. I didn’t know what she wanted—or who she really was, or what her life looked like beyond this.

I also hadn’t been sure the dress would fit. I hadn’t been sure I deserved to see her in it. I just wanted her to feel beautiful.

To feel like someone had looked at her and said: Yes, you. You’re worth it.

I asked one of the maids to discreetly check her closet, take a reference. I didn’t want to guess. I wanted her to feel chosen. Not just dressed up. Desired. Not just tolerated.

And when she stepped out—hair cascading over one shoulder, eyes lined with kohl, lips the colour of crushed berries—I felt something tighten in my chest. An unexplainable pull. Not desire—hunger. The kind that scares a man who’s used to being the one devoured.

At the auction, I saw her discomfort. The way she scanned the room, measuring herself against the women in couture. I wanted her to feel beautiful just the way she looked. But I saw the tension in her shoulders. The way she held my arm like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Then, she appeared—Isabella. Tall. Slim. Dressed in silk that clung to her curves. I recognised her instantly. We’d had a short affair once. A month, maybe. Then I found out she was Lorenzo’s muse—close to me, only to pass on business intel. I cut ties with her and never called her again. I knew what kind of woman she was and the time would come for my payback.

But she remembered me. She looked at Roxanne like she was a stain on my image. Like she didn’t belong. Like she was nothing.

And I hated that I didn’t know how to protect her from it. Not with words. Not with presence. Roxanne shrank by an inch.

Isabella made women do that—shrink. And Roxanne didn’t deserve to shrink for anyone.

And I just stood there. A coward in a suit, frozen while she felt undermined under another woman’s gaze. I hated it. Hated that I let her feel she didn’t belong. I did nothing. I didn’t know how to fight for softness in a room designed for wolves.

I wanted Roxanne to feel seen. To know that when I looked at her, it was with admiration. With something deeper than lust. I wanted the world to see it too. But I didn’t know how to show it. Not when I’d spent years hiding softness behind steel.

When I noticed her lingering on the emerald necklace in the catalogue, something overcame me. I decided in that moment—I wanted to gift it to her. So, I waited.

Then Isabella started bidding and ego took over. I raked up the price. Two hundred. Three hundred. Five hundred.

I stopped only after Roxanne tugged on my arm, telling me it wasn’t worth the fight.

She was right. But I wasn’t done. It wasn’t about the necklace anymore. It was about pride.

But pride is a filthy thing. It whispers louder than reason, louder than the woman you’re trying not to lose. Every bid, every counter—it wasn’t about money. It was a demonstration of control. The same control I’d shown Roxanne in private, the way I’d held her, marked her. Only this time, it was a battle for her attention, not her body but the ache was the same. It was about proving something, to her, to myself. That I could give her more than silence.

I typed a message to Isabella

When Roxanne excused herself, I went to pay and collect my other winnings. Isabella approached, hips swaying, eyes gleaming.

“Marcello,” she purred, tracing her fingers along my chest.

“Still breaking hearts just to watch them crumble?”

“Not tonight.”

I asked for the necklace.